Fortes Fortuna Adiuvat
by GirlGoingSolo
Summary: "Is everything preordained? Was I doomed to die like this from the very beginning?" When the war forces Draco to question everything he's ever known, his life and the lives of those he cares about are suddenly in incredible danger ...
1. Memory Loss

**A/N: **

**Ahem. Well. This is the first chapter of something. I'm not quite sure where it's going to end up, because I'm not very good at forward planning, but never mind. I will try make it exciting :) **

**Basically, it's set sort of somewhere in the middle of book seven. Draco disobeys Voldemort and has to leave Malfoy Manor, and …**

**I'll leave it there for the moment because the first chapter is just setting the scene as to why he has to leave … but later there will be some interesting Draco / Harry / Ron dialogue and some romantic tension between Draco / Hermione, and later, Draco /Astoria :)**

**DISCLAIMER: J. K. Rowling owns it all, I own nothing. Unfortunately. **

Draco pulled the mask from his face and took a moment to drag his sleeve across his forehead. Tonight's events had left him numb with shock; a cold sweat beaded his brow. The mask weighed heavy in his hands. He looked down at it, repressing a shudder as the hollow eye sockets stared back at him.

Dead eyes. Unsettlingly like those of the Death Eater he had killed tonight.

It had been accidental. He had been about to leave the Ministry, relieved that nothing had gone wrong and at the same time frustrated that his excursion had once again proved fruitless. The man had walked straight into him.

No warning, nothing.

If he was discovered, it was all over. The lives of his friends, family and countless others would be forfeit. It was not even worth counting his own among theirs; it would be snuffed out long before Voldemort dealt with the rest.

He had panicked.

He didn't remember saying the words. One searing moment of fear, the next …

Those dead eyes, staring up at him.

He shivered. The words rung in his head like a death knell.

_Avada kedavra. _

Irreversible. Unforgivable.

An owl hooted outside his window and he flinched violently.

_Just an owl, Draco. Relax._

Pulling himself together, he rose to his feet. It would do no good to brood over what he had done. It was all for good in the end. The lesser of two evils. Dumbledore had, at least, taught him that.

He tossed the mask onto the bed and stretched, relishing the satisfactory ache of his muscles. Then he drew his wand to perform the spells that had, in the last few months, become ritual.

It took a while to stop his hands trembling.

With a few well-wrought charms, the mask was easily concealed under a loose stone in the floor. He smoothed the moth-eaten silk carpet carefully back over it, eyeing his work appraisingly.

Once done, he pulled off his black cloak and robes and quickly changed into thin cotton pyjama trousers. Goosebumps prickled on his skin in the chill night air.

Quickly, he hung the black clothes in the wardrobe and rummaged around in a drawer, swearing under his breath as his numb fingers fumbled noisily over its contents.

If anyone heard him …

At length, he withdrew a tiny crystal vial. Tomorrow morning, it would join the others under the loose stone.

Grimacing slightly, he put his wand to his temple and drew out a glistening strand of memory. It shimmered in the moonlight as he prodded it down into the vial, which he hastily stoppered.

_Almost done. _He let out a shaky sigh. The paranoia that his nighttime endeavours engendered was almost not worth it. Almost.

He padded over to the four poster bed, eager for the relief it would shortly bring, and tucked the crystal vial into a bedside drawer. Wearily, he slid under the silk sheets.

Only one last thing to do.

Moonlight gleamed on his wand as he pointed it into his own face.

"_Obliviate." _

_..._

Dawn broke early, pink and gold streaking the pearly sky.

Draco hissed as his bare feet touched the floor. The stone was like ice. Teeth chattering, he pulled on his dressing gown and tiptoed down the corridor to the bathroom.

Wormtail's snores issued gratingly from behind his bedroom door. Draco wrinkled his nose in distaste. No-one in the Manor cared much for the fetid little man, apart from the Dark Lord himself, who held him unusually close.

_Probably because he's a treacherous little swine who'd betray anyone as soon as look at them. _

Thankfully, the bathroom was deserted. Draco locked the door before switching the hot shower tap on full blast.

He surveyed himself in the vast mirror and frowned. Something was wrong. He had gone to bed early last night. So why were his eyes ringed with deep grey shadows? He looked pallid and ill.

With a shrug, he dismissed it. Anyone would look ill with the Dark Lord threatening to kill them every few hours.

Before long the bathroom was filled with billowing steam, obscuring the black marble walls and silver serpent taps.

Draco let the water stream over his tired body, easing away the aches in his muscles.

Funny, that. He hadn't done anything physically demanding in the last few days.

After showering, he splashed his face with cold water and towelled himself dry.

Back in his bedroom, he dressed quickly in jeans and a dark shirt. He glanced in the mirror, again perturbed by the dark circles under his eyes, and dug in the bedside drawer for his wand.

Cold glass met his hand.

He recoiled. An inexplicable sense of foreboding crept over him.

Slowly, he drew the object out.

"What the …" he breathed. The insubstantial silver mist inside the vial swirled mysteriously, beckoning him in.

Draco hesitated. Subliminally, something told him he didn't want to know its secrets. But it must be important, for someone to have put it there.

He stood for a moment, torn by indecision.

Then he ran to the cupboard and pulled out an old chipped ceramic bowl.

With shaking hands, he set the bowl on his bed and decanted the swirling memory into it.

Was he doing the right thing? He took a deep breath, and before he could change his mind, bent his head toward the memory.

It did not take long.

A few minutes later he sank, gasping, against the side of the bed.

Of course he remembered now. The whole stupid thing.

The elaborate memory loss set-up was a precaution against Voldemort's Legilimency skills. If Voldemort found out, Draco doubted he would live for more than a few minutes.

But despite the risk involved, the thought of stopping made his stomach turn. Cowering away here like a frightened rabbit felt ten times worse than actually _doing_ something, albeit something very dangerous.

It was being forced to torture Ollivander that had done it. The others, the strangers, did not matter as much, but as he watched the old man – the man who had beamed as he sold Draco a wand – writhe before him as Voldemort laughed in pleasure, something inside Draco had snapped.

That night as he lay in bed, he had though it over. He had to do _something_. There must be some way to bring Voldemort down and end this terror.

With a jolt, he had remembered all Potter's secret meetings with Dumbledore. And the way that Dumbledore had appeared on the top of the tower on the night of his death, mysteriously weakened. _With Potter_.

It had taken a while, but finally Draco had resolved to find out what Potter and his friends were doing. Maybe even help them. Even though the thought of _helping _Potter was about as pleasant as sticking pins in his eyes.

_Potter_. He ground his teeth.

Potter had everything. No restraints. No-one governing his life for him.

And everyone felt _so sorry _for him. Tragic, they called it. Poor boy, all alone in the world.

What Draco would give to be alone in the world. Nobody understood what a blessing it would be. His whole life, he had been groomed to act, think and live like his father, a Death Eater.

No independence, not a chance to make his own life and break free of the stigma surrounding the name of Malfoy.

To one side of the wizarding world, they were despicable. A family immersed in the Dark Arts for centuries upon centuries, obsessed with their pureblood status.

To the other, they were a laughing stock, disgraced by Lucius's failure to capture the prophecy. A family of cowards.

_Well. I can't deny that._

Draco scowled. That was another thing about Potter that he envied. The ability to go about this war with nothing to hide. Of course, they had to do everything in secret, but everyone knew without a doubt what side they were on.

He, on the other hand, was expected to revel in the Dark Lord's presence. It was an _honour_ to do his bidding.

And Draco did his bidding. He couldn't deny it. He was scared. Scared of what Voldemort might do if Draco disobeyed.

Did that make him a coward?

Wanting nothing but the Dark Lord's downfall and at the same time doing exactly as he commanded?

When he was younger, the idea of being a Death Eater had been his highest ideal. A way to inspire fear and respect, to be followed and admired.

He had revelled in his family's association with Voldemort. Pride from being part of something he did not fully understand had given him confidence and made him arrogant.

_Stupid child._

He understood all too well now. Reality was nothing like his malicious, juvenile conception.

He grimaced and pulled himself to his feet. All this had seemed like a good idea at the time. Something to help lift the shroud of fear hanging over the wizarding world.

_Well. _

If he was completely honest with himself, it was more like something to help assuage the mantle of guilt that weighed so heavy on his shoulders.

But to no avail.

He felt worse than ever, now. All his efforts so far had been a miserable failure. He had discovered nothing, and reliving last night's venture was more painful than the rest.

He shook his head to clear the unwelcome images from his mind, but they lingered like cobwebs.

_Don't be stupid,_ he told himself. _I'm no saint, but I'm not a demon either. _

After a slight pause, he shoved the crystal vial under the loose stone and quickly rewove the enchantments around it.

...

It was hard to go down to breakfast, knowing that Bellatrix would be there. All she seemed to live for was to make people miserable.

Even her own sister disliked her.

He consoled himself with the fact that the Dark Lord was gone, off on one of his long and unexplained absences. When he was away, the veil of fear mantling the house lifted somewhat, and a measure of normalcy returned.

"Good morning, princeling," Bellatrix sneered as he sat down at the table. Her cheeks were flushed with anticipation.

Beside her, her pale sister placed a restraining hand on Draco's arm.

He shrugged it off angrily and reached for the cereal. What he would give to curse Bellatrix, straight in the face. One good jinx, preferably as painful as possible.

The corner of his mouth curled upwards slightly as he imagined it.

Bellatrix looked put out by his lack of retaliation.

"The Dark Lord should be back soon. He said he would not be longer than a week."

Her lips twitched. "I daresay _some _of us will be pleased to see him."

Draco ignored her jibe, venting his resentment on his cereal instead.

"We are all his servants, Bella," murmured Narcissa, though her lips barely moved, "though _you _seem to favour him above that."

Bellatrix hissed. "And what if I do, Cissy? The Dark Lord needs all the support he can garner. What state of affairs is this, when even his own subjects begin to turn against him?"

Narcissa stiffened and a hint of red coloured her pale cheeks. For the first time, she met her sister's eyes.

Draco watched, interested.

"What do you mean by that, Bella? If you speak of Lucius—"

"Oh, don't be stupid." Bellatrix snapped, "Lucius is the _last _person on the Dark Lord's mind at the moment. Though I daresay he will remember him soon enough," she added snidely. Narcissa furiously opened her mouth to interrupt, but Bellatrix waved a contemptuous hand and continued.

"All I _meant_ was that the Dark Lord is increasingly concerned that people he though loyal to him are beginning to deviate from the path he has laid out for them. For example, this _Ghost Thief_, as they're calling him.A lot of people convinced he's nothing more than one of ours gone over to the other side. Despicable," she spat.

Draco tensed. The Daily Prophet had picked up on his escapades fairly quickly and there had been numerous small articles, but he had hoped they would go unnoticed amongst the bigger stories.

Narcissa sighed, her eyes once again fixed on the table. "You know that's only a myth Bella—"

"A myth!" Bella snarled. "It's no fairytale, Cissy! The Thief killed last night at the Ministry. Harkiss is dead. Look, there's even a picture."

Draco's stomach twisted. A picture? That was impossible.

Heart beating uncomfortably against his ribs, he reached out and snatched the paper from Bellatrix.

"Give it to me."

"Hey!" Bellatrix flushed irritably and glared at Narcissa. "Teach your brat some manners Cissy, or Nagini will have him for tea. You should watch your step, little prince," she crooned.

Draco hardly heard her as he riffled through the pages. Finally, he found it.

The article was right in the middle of the second page. A bold headline announced, "_Thief kills at Ministry last night_".

He felt the blood drain out of his already ashen face. Below the headline was a picture, alarmingly accurate. The caption read, "_Artist's rendition of the Ghost Thief, drawn from the memories of a Ministry worker who glimpsed the Thief on Tuesday night_".

Draco swallowed nervously, hoping his expression was approximately neutral. If Bellatrix noticed his reaction …

She was not an unintelligent woman. She was perfectly capable of adding two and two and coming up with four ... And he dreaded to think what might happen if she did.

"I'll have that back, thanks," snapped Bellatrix as she ripped the newspaper from his hands.

He scowled at her, but his spirits rose slightly. She did not seem to have noticed anything. All the same, he finished his cereal and left the table as soon as possible.

Climbing the stairs back to his bedroom, the thought occurred to him; perhaps it was time to leave Malfoy Manor.

**Well, that's it for now. It's a bit longwinded, but Draco's a very cool character, so who cares :) **

**Hope you enjoyed, please review and tell me what you think!**


	2. Scars and Jam Jars

**A/N: **

**Ok, so here's chapter 2. Erm. Sorry it's so incredibly long, I wanted to get Malfoy Manor out of the picture by the end of the chapter, so it went on for a bit. I probably could have made it shorter, but there is some quality Draco time that I couldn't resist writing :)**

**DISCLAIMER: J. K. Rowling owns it all (lucky woman). **

"Mother?"

It was after dinner and the house was lit with flickering candlelight. Bellatrix was safely out of earshot downstairs in the living room.

Draco knocked softly on his mother's bedroom door.

"Come in Draco, dear."

He pushed open the door and entered the room, shutting it quietly behind him. His mother was reclining on the four poster bed, reading a book. She looked up expectantly at him, and patted the edge of the bed.

"What is it, darling?"

Draco remained silent as he sat down beside her, avoiding eye contact. He didn't know where to start.

"Draco?" She sounded concerned. "What's wrong?"

"Mother—"

He broke off suddenly and bent his head to compose himself, distractedly picking at a loose thread in the bedcover.

She waited, silently. Seconds ticked by and still he could not pluck up the courage to look at her.

"Draco?"

"I have to leave," he blurted out.

"What? But … but, Draco—"

She stared at him in shock, unable to grasp what he had just said.

Hating himself for putting her through this, Draco met her gaze reassuringly.

"Leave here. Malfoy Manor."

"Leave _here? _But why? You cannot leave here Draco; the Dark Lord would never allow it! You would be killed!"

She blanched, her already ashen face turning stark white. Even her lips drained of all colour.

Draco laid a hand on her arm to reassure her.

"Please mother, you have to help me." He was ashamed to hear the pleading tone of his voice, but he could not help it. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have done it."

"Done what?"

He took a deep breath. "The Ghost Thief they've been talking about? That was _me_."

She stared at him, her pale eyes wide with shock. "But Draco, _why_?"

He shook his head, unable to look at her any longer. "I don't know. It's just … I couldn't _not_ do anything. When he made me … all the torturing …"

His throat tightened and he pulled savagely at the thread, struggling to repress the tears. Swallowing, he tried again.

"I can't stand everything being … like this anymore. I wanted to help make it stop. But now …"

In desperation, he looked up. "What can I _do?_ It can't be long before they begin to suspect … today at breakfast, I almost though Bellatrix would …"

"Hush, darling." Narcissa pulled him into a hug, resting her sharp chin on his head. Childishly, he surrendered to her embrace, finding scant comfort in her familiar smell. In all honesty, he thought, she was the only one in the world who truly loved him. His father was as kind as such a man could be, but his expectations were too much to live up to. Only Narcissa appreciated him for who he was; her only son.

"What can we do, what can we do?" she murmured, stroking his hair.

"You must leave, I suppose. It is as dangerous here for you now as it is out there. But how? If you left, just like that, the Dark Lord would surely murder us all, and hunt you down. We must be cleverer."

Draco jerked suddenly out of her grasp. "What about a fight? If the Order came here and there was a fight? I could just leave in the middle and pretend they took me, or something."

A feverish light burned in Narcissa's tear-filled eyes. "Yes! It is natural that the Order would want an easy source of information about us. If they took you, the Dark Lord would care little, he has more important things on his mind. And he would not harm us, because we would have nothing to do with it."

Then her face fell. "But how would such a fight occur? It might be weeks!"

Draco racked his brains. "We could lure them somehow …"

"But how?"

"I don't know."

Silence stretched as they sat together, thinking.

"We could let slip about Gryffindor's sword? Pretend it was here?"

"No, they aren't that stupid. They would wait for a better opportunity."

They resumed their thoughtful silence.

Then, a morbid idea hit Draco.

"Alastor Moody's body."

His mother stared at him.

"The Order are odd that way, mother. They wouldn't want us to have it. We could Confund someone to let slip it's here …"

"That might work … his death was a hard blow to them, after all."

Excited now, Draco gripped her hand tightly. "Who could we Confund? Wormtail would be the easiest option, but he doesn't go out much and the Dark Lord keeps close tabs on him, he might notice."

Narcissa did not seem to share his enthusiasm; she looked frightened. "I suppose … Yaxley? But he is also close to the Dark Lord … what about Thorfinn? Or Rowle? They are almost never in his meetings."

Draco nodded slowly. "Next time one of them comes in here, one of us could Confund them, and tell them what to do. It wouldn't take much, the Order has ears everywhere."

"And then wait for them to come here? We would have to make sure they were discovered before they got away, and try to keep Bellatrix out of it. She might notice something. If Severus was here it would be better … he, at least, is sympathetic to us."

Draco nodded mutely, suddenly scared by the enormity of the task. But he could not repress a flicker of anticipation. It would be so good to be free of the Dark Lord's clutches.

"Thank you for helping me, mother." He hugged her tightly, trying to convey that everything would be fine.

_I hope._

She stifled a sob. "Draco?"

"Yes mother?"

"Promise me you will stay safe?"

"I promise."

She gave him a wan smile. "Let us hope then, that all goes well. Or that Harry Potter does his job and disposes of the Dark Lord before you have to leave. The boy is an arrogant fool, but if he somehow manages to free us from this fear …"

She trailed off suddenly, her eyes wide with anxiety at her own duplicitous words.

Draco hugged her again, trying his best to make her feel better. "It can't be long, mother. I'm sure everything will be fine soon."

"For all our sakes, I hope so."

He smiled half-heartedly. "Goodnight, mother."

"Goodnight, Draco."

...

They did not have to wait long.

Thorfinn came to the house the very next day, looking for food and rest. As he lounged in a chair at the dining room table, grumbling about the long watch hours he had just done, Narcissa drew Bellatrix out of the house.

She shot Draco a meaningful look as they wandered out into the garden, leaving Thorfinn alone in the kitchen.

Draco peered cautiously around the door, his heart hammering. Thorfinn had his back turned, every ounce of concentration on the large plate of chicken pie in front of him.

Carefully, Draco aimed.

"_Confundus._"

The spell hit Thorfinn square in the back. He straightened up suddenly and looked around, a bemused expression on his face. Quickly checking to see that the coast was clear, Draco darted into the kitchen.

"Thorfinn, listen to me."

The big man looked up at him obediently.

"Repeat after me. You are going to go back into the town after you have finished here."

"I will go back to town when I'm finished here," Thorfinn repeated in a flat voice.

"And when you are there, you will find somewhere where the Order is likely to hear you speaking, and in a loud voice tell your companion that Alastor Moody's body is here, at Malfoy Manor."

"I will make sure the Order hear me telling someone where Alastor Moody's body is."

"Very good. Now finish as quickly as you can and leave. Do not remember who told you this."

Breathing heavily, he hurriedly left the kitchen and returned to his bedroom.

...

Three days after he had Confunded Thorfinn, the Order came.

Wednesday morning started like any other normal Wednesday morning, apart from the fact that Bellatrix was there.

"I must go into Gringott's this morning," Draco heard her remark to Narcissa as he made his way down the stairs. "I need to withdraw some gold, and I want to check on that little cup the Dark Lord gave me to keep. I know they say Gringott's is the safest place in the world, but I don't quite trust those horrible little goblins …"

"I quite agree," murmured Narcissa.

Bellatrix glanced up as Draco entered the room.

"Draco, darling," she exclaimed delightedly as he sat down, "I have some wonderful news for you."

Draco's heart sank. There was a malevolent glint in her eye as she leaned towards him. Coupled with the fact that anything Bellatrix thought good was generally very bad, her remark did not bode well.

He decided to ignore her as he battled with the lid on the quince jam jar.

Undeterred, she continued.

"We have news that the Dark Lord will return tomorrow!"

"What?"

He froze, his heart sinking.

"Oh come on, Draco," she said, feigning disappointment, "surely you must be pleased? You do _enjoy_ his company, don't you?"

Draco felt blood flood into his face at her deliberate provocation. He glared at her irately.

"If you think I—"

Without warning, the jam jar in his hand shattered, sending jam mixed with shards of glass flying through the dining room.

"Draco!" shrieked Bellatrix. She leapt to her feet, knocking her chair over. "Look what you've done, you stupid child!"

Her robes were ruined, her hair and face splattered with jam. "Now I shall have to go and change! I can't go to Gringott's like this!"

She stormed out of the room, cuffing him sharply round the back of the head as she left.

_Well, at least that wiped the smile off her face,_ Draco thought grimly as he picked shards of glass out of his hair.

His finger throbbed sharply and he jerked it away. Blood welled from a cut.

"Shit," he muttered.

"Draco," said Narcissa reprovingly, "don't swear."

"Sorry mother," he replied automatically, searching for something to staunch the bleeding. He stood up to leave the table. "Excuse me."

"Draco," she grabbed his sleeve, "you mustn't worry that the Dark Lord will be back so soon. Out plan has not work so far, but we will find a way, I promise!"

He smiled weakly and tugged his sleeved out of her grasp.

Draco had still not managed to repair the cut in his finger by the time Bellatrix had left for Gringott's in a stormy mood.

"_Reparo_," he muttered poking his finger with his wand. The edges of the cut glowed faintly, but did not heal.

Pulling a face, he gave up. His mother could have mended the cut in a few seconds, but he was not in the mood for being cosseted.

Bellatrix had left the bathroom in a mess. Her sticky robes lay in a heap on the floor, which was covered in water.

Draco vanished the water with a wave of his wand. Then, with a smirk, he vanished the robes too.

Once the bathroom was back to its normal state, he stripped off his jam covered jeans and t-shirt and siphoned the jam off with his wand.

Then he stepped into the shower.

He stayed there longer than necessary, letting the hot water lull his fears. When he began to feel uncomfortably hot, he switched the shower off and wrapped a towel around his waist.

He didn't want to leave the refuge of the bathroom just yet. More to give himself something to do than out of necessity, he shaved and patted on some aftershave, wincing as it stung.

The bathroom was still full of steam, so he opened a window and directed the steam out of it with his wand. As he stood by the window, he caught a glimpse of himself in the freshly defogged mirror.

The watery sunlight cast the thin, pearly scars on his chest into sharp relief.

He scowled and walked over to survey himself in front of the mirror, absentmindedly tracing the scars with his index finger.

Snape had been quick to heal him last year, but not even Madam Pomfrey had been able to do anything about the vivid red scars. Over the past year, they had faded to almost white, only just paler than the rest of his skin. The slight ridges they formed were now familiar to his touch, but he still hadn't got used to them.

He supposed he should hate them, really. They were just reminders that Potter had beaten him in a fight. Not that Potter hadn't paid for it with half a million detentions, but still.

He traced the outline of the longest scar, all the way from mid-stomach to collar-bone. It caused a shallow indent in his musculature.

Funnily enough, he didn't hate the scars nearly as much as he loathed their creator. They were, in a certain morbid sort of way, fascinating.

Pushing his damp hair back from his face, he noticed a small cut on his forehead from the jam jar. He laughed at the irony.

The whole world was using Harry Potter and his scar as an icon of the anti-Voldemort movement, and here _he_ was; Draco Malfoy, slave and minion to Voldemort, with a cut in almost exactly the same place as Potter's.

_Except that it's from a jam jar, not a deadly curse. _

He smirked, but as he continued to stare at his reflection, the smirk faded.

_Draco Malfoy, slave and minion to Voldemort. _

_Slave _didn't even begin to describe it. The word _slave_ implied that he was a human being, with thoughts and feelings.

To Voldemort, of course, he was much less than that. Nothing more than an instrument. A device of torture, and perhaps a little entertainment.

_Well, _he thought savagely, _not for much longer. _

The thought gave him a sort of grim satisfaction.

...

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Evening was beginning to fall as Draco paced in his bedroom.

That was another thing he hated about being here. The _boredom_. Life here seemed to fluctuate between abject terror and complete tedium, and it was not a good combination.

He kicked a discarded book out of his way and continued pacing, unable to lay down and relax. Voldemort would be back tomorrow, and he would have to make absolutely sure that there were no incriminating memories in his mind. That meant more Obliviation, which he hated doing to himself. The feeling of not being in control was incredibly frustrating and more than a little disconcerting.

The sun slowly sank below the horizon, setting it afire with red and gold. Finally, Draco collapsed on his bed, exhausted.

The whole thing had really not been worth the effort and he now wished he hadn't done any of it. He sighed, and got slowly to his feet.

The bag he had packed a few days earlier lay at the foot of his bed. It contained spare clothes, the mask and all the crystal vials containing his memories, his toothbrush and various small and probably unnecessary items. He picked it up.

_May as well unpack it, now._

He was just unfastening the top when he heard her scream.

"Draco!"

He straightened up, as if electrified.

"Mother?"

"Draco, quickly!"

There was a cry of "stupefy!" and a deafening bang; crimson light briefly illuminated the dark lawn.

Slinging the bag over his shoulder, Draco snatched his wand from the bedside table and began to run. He slipped on the stairs and fell the last few, then quickly picked himself up and dashed for the front door.

The members of the Order were almost at the gate. Only Snape, Wormtail and Narcissa were holding them off. Spells were flying in every direction, bursts of coloured light illumining the night sky. "Draco!" shrieked Narcissa as she saw him running towards them.

Someone roared "stupefy!" again, and Draco threw up a shield in response. The spell dissipated as it met his, sending red streams of light rippling through the darkness. Almost blinded, Draco stumbled.

"Draco, quickly!"

Narcissa sounded almost hysterical. Draco blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision of the ghostly light-lines imprinted on his retinas.

Suddenly, the sound of shrieking metal filled the air; the gates had broken. Narcissa grabbed his arm and whispered, "Go quickly, before they leave. I will take care of my memories."

He met her eyes briefly. "I love you, mother."

"I love you, Draco. Now go, quickly!"

Draco left her standing on the lawn as he sprinted through the gates behind Snape and Wormtail. One of the Order members was dragging Moody's lifeless body; Draco headed straight for them. Just as they began to twist into nothingness, Draco caught hold of the hem of the person's sleeve.

He heard a shrill scream, and Snape shouting his name.

Then he was enveloped in crushing blackness.

**Ooo now the fun can really begin lol :)**

**Please review and let me know what you think, and if you feel up to it, please tell me where you would to see this story go so I can compare it to my ideas just for fun :) **


	3. Cut the Link to my Heart

**aaliona – thank you so much for being the first to review!**

**IMPORTANT, PLEASE READ:**

**I have made some big, big changes and majorly rewritten almost everything (excluding the first two chapters). Basically, it was getting too long-winded and boring with the Astoria bits, so I've scrapped them all. It will be a lot more action from now on. **

**What you read from here is going to differ quite a lot from canon, but later in the story there will be a major event (following death of a main character, life-choices, things going disastrously wrong for everyone) and suddenly everything will magically become canon-compliant so that it could actually have happened in DH without anyone realising (apart from Hermione). **

**The story will then progress into the Next Generation for further Dramione stuff and possibly some Next Generation romance too. **

**DISCALIMER: Tragically, J. K. Rowling owns everything. **

Shreds of light and colour flashed past him in the rushing darkness. A nameless roaring pressed on his eardrums, deafening him. Strange sights whipped past his vision, vanishing in a heartbeat and leaving only a vague aftertaste of recognition.

Draco clung to his only point of anchorage, fighting the nauseous feeling in the pit of his stomach. His body felt as if it was being slowly crushed.

Without warning, the shriek of wind in his ears grew quieter, and the darkness began to lift.

With all his strength, he wrenched his hand away from whoever's sleeve he had grabbed.

It felt as though he was attached to a stretched rubber band that had reached its elastic limit; his forward travel ceased as abruptly as if he slammed into a brick wall, and he was yanked back into the vortex of darkness behind him.

Without an anchor or a clear thought in his head about where he wanted to go, he was battered from side to side by invisible forces.

Finally, the darkness relented and spat him out.

Draco hit the ground hard. He bounced once, twice and eventually sprawled to a halt.

He lay still for a while, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

When it did, he sat up, cradling his head in his hands. Blood soughed in his ears, making him temporarily deaf. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint as tiny emerald stars blinked in and out of existence before him.

After a time, everything returned to normal.

Draco pushed his hair out of his eyes and looked around.

He was sitting on a grassy hilltop. On one side of the hill, the ground sloped away steeply into a deep forest. On the other, a small multitude of lights twinkled close by, indicating the presence of some sort of settlement.

It was a clear night, and his pupils were so dilated from the utter blackness of Apparition that the darkness surrounding him seemed more like pale bluish light than actual darkness.

Draco shivered as he picked up his bag and wand, his breath curling mistily from his lips in the icy air.

As he did so, searing pain shot through his left hand. He cried out and dropped the bag, grasping his wrist in his right hand. Blood was streaming down his hand and arm, slippery and black in the twilight. There was too much for a simple cut caused by his landing. With growing horror, he spread his hand wide and stared at the space where his ring finger used to be.

It was gone.

There was nothing but a gaping bloody hole, and something that glowed white in the dim light. The smooth, waxen end of a bone.

Draco fell to his knees and vomited.

His hands shaking with increasing panic and dizziness, he pointed his wand at the place where blood was still spilling out and splattering the frosty grass. "R—reparo!"

Nothing happened. If anything, the blood flow increased.

"Sh—shit …"

Stars were beginning to dance before his eyes again. He was fast becoming faint from loss of blood.

Frantically, he racked his brains. He didn't know any healing spells; he hadn't even been able to heal a simple glass cut this morning. He needed help.

But where from? Not just anywhere; his freedom was too dearly bought to give away with one little mistake.

In a flash of adrenaline-fueled inspiration, the answer came to him.

Blaise Zabini.

His mother was too interested in seducing rich men to have any affiliation with the Dark Arts, and therefore Voldemort. And Draco knew where they lived, having been to a masquerade ball there only last year.

Apparition would be risky in these conditions, but the alternative was bleeding to death.

Drawing a shaky breath in a futile attempt to calm himself, he concentrated harder than he had ever concentrated before in his life and turned on the spot.

Once again, blackness rushed past him, numbing his body and dizzying him. Just as he became convinced he was going to lose consciousness and splinch himself even more seriously, the roaring and whistling of the wind ceased, and he found himself standing on the stone doorstep.

He got a brief glimpse of thick, rope-like ivy and a cast-iron eagle doorknocker before his knees buckled, he swayed, and everything turned to darkness.

...

"Draco?"

Strange fairy-like lights flickered around his head like darting silver fish, sometimes zooming in close to give him fleeting, confused impressions of faces swimming above him.

It was too bewildering; he tried to block it out.

"Draco?"

He couldn't block out the sound, though. He could hear footsteps, fading and magnifying every few heartbeats. There was also a hushed multitude of voices, and piercing, discordant birdsong, all jumbled together with a soft regular thudding noise.

With a vague sense of interest, he realised the thudding noise was his heart.

_...That's good. I'm still alive._

"Draco?"

The voice was insistent. Reluctantly, Draco forced his eyes open. His eyelids felt leaden, and the room was altogether too bright. He scrunched his brow and squinted at the shadowy grey shapes nearest to him.

"Draco?"

Close up, the face was dark with cropped black hair. He vaguely recognised …

"Blaise?" he croaked.

"Hey, he's awake! How are you feeling?"

_How was he feeling? Was there something wrong with him?_

Without warning, everything flooded back to him.

Reeling at the sudden influx of memory, Draco sat bolt upright. Panic clawed at his belly.

"Where am I? Who else is here? Oh shit, my hand!"

He gazed in horror at his mutilated left hand. There was no blood or bone or bone visible. The gap appeared to have been mended while he had been unconscious. Now, there was a clean, smooth space between his little and middle fingers.

Repulsed, and unable to even try and comprehend the consequences of this loss, he tore his gaze away from his hand. It landed on Blaise, who was looking at him with a mixture of pity and concern. Draco immediately hardened his expression, not wishing to show his weakness.

"What happened?"

Blaise cocked an eyebrow. "I was hoping _you _were going to tell me that."

Draco looked down, avoiding his gaze. "I'll explain later. It's complicated. What happened while I was out?"

Frowning, Blaise crossed his arms. "I'll tell you on the condition that you explain everything right after I've finished."

"Fine," snapped Draco.

Blaise sighed. "Well, I was just going to bed when Spencer called me—"

"Who?"

"Spencer, Spencer our butler," said Blaise impatiently. "Spencer called me downstairs, which was unusual because he hardly ever disturbs us. He said he heard something outside, which I assume was the crack from your Apparition or something. So we decided to check. You can never be too careful in … present times. Anyway, we found you passed out and covered in blood on the doorstep and took you in, and after Spencer verified you weren't someone in disguise he healed your wound and waited for you to wake up."

"What time is it?"

"It's nine a.m. but that's irrelevant. Now, you're going to tell me how _on earth_ you managed to rip your finger off and pass out on my front porch. You're lucky my mother is out, she would've had a heart attack."

Draco sighed. Judging by the determined look on Blaise's face, there was no getting out of this.

"Fine. You probably already know the situation with my family and the Dark Lord at the moment – it seems everyone does," he added bitterly. "Well, he's using our house as a head quarters of sorts. And obviously that's hard enough without him forcing … us … to torture people and … and stuff like that. So I left. You don't need to know how. Basically I pretended the Order kidnapped me. I lost my finger when I splinched myself Apparating out of there and the only safe place I could think of to come for help was here. So I cam and passed out on your doorstep."

He shrugged, trying to give a convincing appearance of nonchalance. He certainly hadn't told Blaise the whole truth, and nobody needed to know that Draco Malfoy was Lord Voldemort's favourite tool of torture.

He held his breath, but Blaise was nodding slowly.

"I think you'll appreciate the fact that I'd rather no-one knew I was here?"

"Of course," said Blaise absently.

Seizing the opportunity to change the subject, Draco said "Where's your mother?"

Blaise laughed, the first time Draco had heard anyone do so genuinely in a long while. The sound was almost shocking. "She's out on a rendezvous. Didn't you hear? She's engaged to Daphne's father."

"What? Daphne Greengrass?" said Draco, trying to conceal his surprise. "Are they particularly rich, then?"

Blaise gave him a mock glare, and chuckled again. He seemed to have momentarily forgotten Draco's story, or at least had decided to put it off for discussion at a later date. "No, not really. I think this time it may actually be for love, not money. They're coming to stay here tomorrow, at any rate."

Draco shrugged disinterestedly. "I expect you'll be very charming then. You know about Daphne's, erm … shall we say _fondness_ for you, then?"

Blaise grinned smugly. "Yep. Not that I intend to do anything about, she's not really my type. But things will be much more interesting with her and her sister here."

"She has a sister?"

"Oh yes. She's about a year younger than us, actually. I've never met her personally, but if she's anything like Daphne she'll be pleasant enough. We could try fixing her up with you, if you like," he added with a wink.

Draco shrugged, not amused. "No thanks, I'm not really in a position to be romantically involved right now."

With a sudden pang, he realised that if he ever got married, he would have nowhere to put his wedding ring. The thought was unexpectedly painful.

To distract himself, he said "What's her name?"

"Oh, interested now, are we?" Blaise grinned mischievously.

Draco glowered at him. "No, of course not, don't be ridiculous. But I'd look stupid if I didn't know her name when they all turn up."

Blaise smiled, looking annoyingly unconvinced, but answered nevertheless.

"Her name's Astoria."

"Astoria," Draco repeated, almost unthinkingly.

_Pretty name …_

**Ok, I hope you approve of the changes. **

**Please please please review and tell me what you genuinely think! I won't get offended, honestly. I won't send you insulting PMs or flame your stories or set up an I HATE {your name here} blog. **

**I just want to know if you love it or hate it, and if so why, so I can make it better. Especially if you speak English. If you don't, I still appreciate the thought (though I have no idea why you'd review something you can't make head or tail of, but that's irrelevant. I will head straight off to Google Translate. If, that is, I can figure out what language you are speaking. I don't even know why I'm telling this to someone who I'm assuming doesn't speak English. If you do speak English, please ignore everything you have just read in these brackets). **

**Thank you.**


	4. Sonata for a Good Man

**A/N: **

**Sorry for any mistakes, I wrote most of this late at night while trying to fight off the moth army mobbing my laptop. IT WAS AWFUL I HATE BUGS. So I hope you like it.**

**Oh, and in a certain scene (which I will indicate with an A/N, sorry in advance for the interruption, I know everyone hates them, but otherwise you won't know where) I would love it if you could listen to Pachelbel's Canon in D. If you youtube "canon in D piano", it should come up (the best version is played by Lee Galloway, uploaded by the user yuanlike). It's one of the most beautiful pieces of music ever and really sets the scene. The timing obviously isn't perfect (it's a bit longer than the scene), but just wait for it to finish before reading on. **

**Anyway. To infinity and beyond!**

**DISCLAIMER: sadly, I do not own Draco or any other characters / spells / methods of magical transport etc. And I don't own "to infinity and beyond!" either (but if I did it would say it constantly just for fun).**

"_Draco!" _

_Narcissa's voice sounded excitedly from downstairs. "Draco, happy birthday! Come down and open your presents!"_

_Smiling, he pushed himself off his bed and made his way down the stairs. The hallway was deserted. _

"_Mother? Where are you?" _

_He frowned. Something wasn't right. Why were all the lights off? And where were his parents?_

"_Draco …"_

_He turned slowly, terror seeping through his veins. A light flickered into existence halfway down the hallway, revealing something … a dark crumpled mass._

_Suddenly, he didn't want to know, but to his horror his feet were moving against his will, bringing him nearer and nearer …_

_And then he saw the dead eyes, staring up at him …_

"No!"

Draco sat bolt upright in bed, drenched in cold sweat. Sickening images lingered in his mind; when he closed his eyes they became brighter, more vivid.

He felt ill. His heart was racing as if he had just run a marathon and his stomach churned.

Fearfully, he peered into the shadows. What if it wasn't a dream? What if …?

"Lumos!"

At once, the shadows retreated. Slowly Draco got out of bed and made his way over to the light switch. Once the lights were on, he leant against the wall for a moment, ashamed to feel himself shaking. For extra measures he drew the curtains, blocking out the blackness beyond the windows.

It didn't look like he'd be sleeping much tonight. He shivered and slid back into bed.

…

"Draco!"

Someone hammered on the bedroom door.

"Draco! Get up, our guests are here!"

"_Who?_" Draco muttered.

Blaise rapped smartly on the door again. "I'm going downstairs to entertain them. You come down when you're dressed, hotshot."

Draco climbed slowly out of bed, rubbing his aching eyes. The book he had been reading slid off his lap and landed on the floor, pages splaying. He groaned and bent down to pick it up, his muscles burning even worse than the day before. He remembered reading and being irritated by the birds heralding dawn with their noisy chatter.

For a moment, his skin crawled as he remembered what had kept him awake, but he quickly pushed it out of his mind.

Eager to forget last night, Draco made his way over to the ensuite bathroom. As he glimpsed his reflection in the mirror, he scowled.

Dark grey shadows ringed his eyes, which were bloodshot and puffy from lack of sleep. There were red lines on his cheek where his face had pressed against the pillow, and his skin was even paler than usual.

He raised a hand to run it through his hair, but stopped suddenly as he saw the alien gap in the fingers on his left hand.

The sight of it stirred some deep-seated emotion in him, similar to the feeling of helpless rage and unfairness he got when he looked at Potter. He grit his teeth and clenched his hand into a tight fist so he didn't have to look at it.

After showering, he pulled on the jeans and t-shirt he had been wearing the day before. They had been washed and a long rip in the shirt had been mended. They smelled strange and itched uncomfortably on his skin.

Reluctantly, he began wending his way downstairs.

The trek to the living room took longer than he had anticipated; Blaise's house was even bigger than Malfoy Manor. A while ago, that would have bothered him, but now it seemed irrelevant.

Nonetheless, when he finally found Blaise and the guests, he was in a less than good mood.

"Draco, you're finally up," Blaise drawled.

He was clearly in impress mode. Draco shrugged disagreeably and collapsed on a sofa, wishing he could return to his room.

"You know Daphne, of course," Blaise continued, gesturing to the slender blond girl who dimpled prettily and fluttered her eyelashes at Blaise. "_This_," Blaise went on, without acknowledging Daphne's flirtatious glance, "is Astoria."

Draco nodded as politely as he could and the girl blushed and looked away.

As Blaise and Daphne resumed their chatting, Draco let his eyes wander around the room. It was very elaborate, and he noticed a grand piano situated in the far corner. He made a mental note to try it when the others went out. Although his father disapproved on the basis that music was too 'girly', Narcissa had insisted he take lessons from the age of four. He had never told anyone, of course. He was inclined to agree with his father on this one, though when he was alone he did actually rather enjoy it.

An empty feeling settled suddenly in his stomach as he realised his lost finger would probably impede his ability to play the piano. He frowned, and tore his gaze away from it.

It landed on the girl who sat silently next to her sister on the opposite sofa.

The two girls couldn't look less alike if they tried. Where Daphne's hair glistened like golden sunlight, Astoria's was dark and neatly braided. She seemed to have inherited some gene that her sister did not have; her nose was aquiline and her cheekbones high. She looked almost like the middle-eastern witches he had seen at the Quidditch world cup.

Draco's lip curled. Blaise had wanted to set him up with _this? _Sure, her features were oddly striking, but there was no pretending she was _attractive_.

Scowling, he got up and started flipping through one of the books on the shelves.

….

The blond boy gave her a look that withered her insides, and Astoria blushed.

She wished now more than ever that they could just stay at home. Blaise was very nice and very handsome, and his mother even more so, but she couldn't quite shake the feeling that she didn't fit in here. And Blaise's friend was only making it worse.

She vaguely recognised him from school. He was a prefect, constantly awarding ill-deserved detentions and making lives miserable.

Bored with Blaise and her sister's conversation, she watched as the blond boy got up from the sofa and wandered off.

What had Blaise called him? Draco? It suited him. She smiled wryly to herself. Judging by his behaviour at school, his parents had either cursed him with the name, or he had tried to live up to it. Either way, one party had definitely succeeded.

_Although … _

As she watched him out of the corner of her eye, she noticed how different he seemed from the few times she had seen him before.

His face was troubled and a small frown lingered on his brow, never quite clearing.

And though he idly turned the pages of a book, she could tell his attention was elsewhere; his eyes held a glazed, faraway look.

Strangest of all, he kept one hand in a tight fist. He didn't look angry, but she could see the tendons standing out in his arm from here.

She felt a nudge and turned to see Blaise winking at her.

"He is nice to look at, isn't he?"

She felt her cheeks flush with heat again. "Oh, I … I wasn't—"

"Don't worry, Astoria. I won't tell him a thing."

He winked again and resumed his conversation with Daphne, who looked disgruntled at the interruption.

Astoria shook her head disbelievingly. How could Blaise think she was interested in Draco? He was … well, draconian. Draco by name, Draco by nature. Besides, she had only just officially met him, and he had looked about as interested in her as in a piece of roadkill.

She allowed herself to look covertly at him again, this time making sure Blaise was well and truly occupied first. There was disputing the fact that he _was_ good-looking. Not as handsome as Blaise, of course. But somehow, his straight-backed stance and the way his white-blond hair hung over his eyes were very pleasant to look at.

But he wasn't her type.

She preferred warmth and wit to aloofness, no matter how mysteriously alluring it might be.

As if he'd felt her eyes on him, he glanced up. For a moment, their eyes met.

Then, his gaze passed over her as though she were no more than another ornament in the room. Inexplicably, a wave of disappointment washed over her and she had the sudden urge to walk over to him, make him look at her again.

_Don't be stupid, Astoria. He clearly doesn't think you're worth a knut._

Pushing the strangely empty feeling to the edge of her mind, she turned back to Blaise and Daphne.

…..

"We'll be back around eleven or twelve," said Blaise.

Draco nodded absently. It was twilight and the first stars were beginning to come out in the night sky.

Blaise, Daphne and Astoria stood at the bottom of the stairs, dressed in formal eveningwear.

"Still sure you don't want to come with, Draco? It is the Ritz, after all."

"No thanks," said Draco shortly. He knew full well the only reason Blaise wanted him to come was to force him to talk to Astoria.

"Too bad. We'll smuggle you back some cake." Blaise winked and they all began making their way out to the chauffeured car outside.

Draco watched them go.

He had to admit, what Astoria's face lacked her figure made up for. She was wearing an elegant white dress with eyelet lace that fell to her knees.

_What am I thinking?_

He had the sudden urge to slap himself round the face. Even in that dress, there was no way he found Astoria attractive. He snorted and went back to the now empty living room.

**[cut to youtube, Canon in D, piano]**

Almost warily, he seated himself at the grand piano and placed his hands on the keys. It had been a while since he'd played anything. Lately, Malfoy Manor hadn't exactly been the right sort of place for music.

His hands knew the piece so well he didn't have to remember it.

Pachelbel's Canon in D. His favourite piece.

The first notes of the melody echoed through the empty house, lonely and beautiful.

His missing finger felt odd, but it didn't affect him as much as he thought it would. It was almost as though it was there again, but invisible.

Draco bit down hard on his lip.

Music was the one thing that affected him like nothing else could. By some deeper, mysterious magic, it reached out and touched his soul, broke the barriers that he built to protect himself from his own emotions. It forced him to feel the things he didn't _want_ to feel.

In a way, he hated that something could make him so vulnerable. The upwelling of emotion always caught him by surprise, as if he hadn't even been aware he could feel the things it made him feel. It scared him.

He thought he knew who he was. But every time he played music, it revealed something new, evoked an unfamiliar facet of his psyche.

How could he know himself while keeping so much of himself hidden, even from his own knowledge?

How could he do anything when he no longer knew what side he was on?

How could he help _anyone _when he didn't know how to help himself?

And _how _could he possibly be the person he wanted to be when he didn't know who that person was?

It started slowly, like the first drops of rain from stormclouds. As the music flowed, he allowed his feelings to wash over him, feelings he hadn't even been aware of.

His hate for Voldemort.

His love and fear for his mother.

The confusion and doubt that came with trying to do the right thing when he wasn't even sure what that was.

The uncertainty of not knowing where to go next.

The crushing guilt that constantly haunted him.

And most of all, the overwhelming loneliness he had felt all his life but always tried to ignore. The loneliness that came from having everything and still feeling empty. The loneliness of being the one everyone respected but didn't like, the one no-one every truly got to know, the one who no longer fit in and no longer knew where his place was.

Unable to stop them, he let the tears spill down his cheeks and splash onto the piano. Like a dam breaking, he poured all his soul into the music, let it draw out his love, hate and fear and release it into the vacant house, truly feeling his pain for the first time since the war had started.

Melancholy, bittersweet.

The intensity frightened him, and yet at the same time it was a relief, as if some internal pressure was being slowly released with every note.

It hurt, but he didn't want it to stop, because at that moment he was the closest he had ever come to understanding.

…..

"Oh shoot!" muttered Astoria as the car sped towards London. "I left my lactose intolerance potion at Blaise's. Can we go back?"

Incantatrice rolled her eyes, but smiled amusedly. "Don't worry, darling."

She leaned forwards and tapped the driver on the shoulder. "Spencer? Would you mind taking Astoria back to the Castello quickly? She's forgotten something."

The driver nodded and pulled over. He got out of the car and offered an arm to Astoria, who took it grudgingly.

She hated sidelong apparition.

"Be quick dear, our reservation is at eight!"

Astoria smiled at Incantatrice, then braced herself as the driver began to turn.

Almost immediately, the sickening sensation was over and Astoria stood panting on the gravel driveway of the Castello.

"I'll wait out here for you, shall I?"

She nodded at the driver and ran up to the house. In the hallway she stopped, puzzled.

There was music coming from the living room. Beautiful, sweet, sad music.

She hesitated.

Then, as if the melody was guiding her footsteps, she began to walk down the passageway towards the sound.

The door opened silently before her, and she inhaled sharply in shock.

_Draco _was sitting at the grand piano, and the music flowing from beneath the lid was like nothing she had ever believed him capable of.

The depth of emotion almost brought tears to her eyes.

Then, he missed a note.

Without warning, all his serenity erupted into flaming anger and he brought his fist crashing down on the keys with a cry of frustration. The dissonant cacophony of notes faded for a moment, but then he brought his fist down again, both fists this time, battering the piano keys as if he wanted nothing more than to break them into tiny pieces.

"D—Draco?"

As though stung, he leapt to his feet, knocking the piano stool over. His wand was in his hand, pointing straight at her.

"Get out!" he yelled, his voice cracking.

"But I—"

"Just get _out_! Leave! _Stupefy!_"

The last thing she saw was his hate-filled eyes glaring down at her.

**A/N:**

**Hope you like it. Sorry there wasn't much action, but I felt this chapter was needed just to sort of explain Draco's emotional state so his actions seem less … random. **

**There will be a lot more action next chapter, which is the real start of the story (all the establishing is done now, thank goodness!)**

**Please, please review and tell me what you think! Every time I see a hit on a chapter and think "that person couldn't be bothered to leave a review" it makes me very sad :(**


	5. Time of Death

**A/N:**

**I'm in full-on writing mode now, so I may as well continue :)**

**DISCLAIMER: blah, blah, JKR owns everything except the plot. **

The mask.

It stared up at him with hollow eyes, like a grinning skull. A sneer seemed to twist its wooden lips in the half-light, mocking him.

Draco shuddered. He had often felt that sneer twist his own mouth before, and never realised how ugly it was.

He turned his gaze back to the sofa where he had put the unconscious Astoria. His mind had been blank with rage when he had stunned her. Then, when he realised what he had done, and as the scene reminded him eerily of the torture sessions in the basement of Malfoy Manor, he had panicked.

Now, he felt blank, as thought someone had taken a cloth and wiped clean the slate of his emotions. What was a bit more shit when your life was so full of it already?

He thought about leaving a note and decided against it. Astoria could tell them the whole story when she woke up.

Draco Malfoy, bad guy.

He snorted and picked up his bag, and slung the cloak around his shoulders. Then, he raised the mask to his face once more.

The dry, dusty smell of ancient wood filled his nostrils, nauseating him. It pulled up unwanted memories.

The cold night air was a relief on his feverish skin. How long until they became worried by Astoria's absence and came to find her?

Without warning, gravel crunched. Draco froze, his wand poised.

Spencer.

He was about to utter another stunning spell, but thought better of it and muttered "_Confundus._"

Then, as Spencer turned around looking faintly bemused, he walked out of the tall iron gates.

He didn't know why he was walking. Disapparition would be so much easier and more sensible. But he felt calmer than he had in a long time as he walked down the dark streets towards the glowing town centre, sticking closely to the shadows.

In a strange way it was quite freeing. He could do whatever he wanted now, because he was an outlaw and no-one knew where he was. He smiled.

Just as he was entering the fringes of the town centre, a throb of phantom pain stabbed through his missing finger, and he stopped short. All of a sudden, he didn't feel so calm. The rare sense of self-ownership that had pervaded him a few heartbeats ago evaporated, and he glanced uneasily over his shoulder.

The shadows abruptly looked menacing, as if full of enemies.

Draco shrugged it off and continued walking, resisting the urge to look behind him every few moments.

He got another few meters before he gave into the urge and stopped. Raising his wand, he started to utter the word _Lumos_.

He never finished it.

At that moment, the air was suddenly filled with noise and colour.

Voices – he couldn't tell how many – roared and red and green flashes of light volleyed through the air towards him.

Acting instinctively, Draco threw up a shield and ducked, firing his own spells back at the invisible assailants.

He couldn't see a thing; the brightness of the crazily flying spells left luminous imprints on his retinas, blinding him.

That gave him an idea.

"Lumos Maxima!"

A brilliant nimbus of light burst from his wand, and his attackers cried out in pain. In the dazzling corona, he glimpsed the agonised faces of Travers, Dolohov and Mulciber.

Wasting no time, Draco turned on the spot, twisting into nothingness.

He heard one last cry of "_Sectumsempra!_", and then he was gone.

The roaring wind whipped him away from the three Death Eaters, buffeting him from side to side.

Draco felt a strange, cold sense of exhilaration and self-control. Then, as the blackness began to ebb, he became aware of a searing pain in his side.

At first, he thought he had splinched himself again.

Then, he remembered the Death Eater's cry as he Disapparated. His control began to waver, but he clung tenaciously to the thought of his destination; somewhere as far away from London as he could think of.

The pain was growing worse, and his grip on reality was steadily slackening. This was worse than the pain from losing his finger.

_This _pain went straight to his core, burning him to the very marrow of his bones. And at the same time, he felt colder than he had ever felt in his life before.

Then, suddenly, the blackness of apparition vanished.

He lay on top of a wind-blown hill, stunned by the similarity of the scene.

The night looked blue again, mist curled from his lips, and he lay bleeding on the ground. Except this time, there was nowhere to go, no-one to heal him.

The reality of it struck him like a blow to the chest.

_There was no-one to heal him_.

He was going to die.

Draco gasped, watching his last few breaths coil softly into the icy air. He could feel himself fading.

Was this where his escape had led to? Death, alone and forsaken on this unfamiliar hilltop? Was this what he had been running blindly towards all along, not knowing what awaited him?

Using the last of his strength, he reached up and pulled the mask from his face. He wanted to feel the wind on his skin one last time.

The stars glinted coldly above him in the clear night sky, sharply at first. Then, as he stared, they began to blur into a never ending swirl of celestial colour and light. Blackness began to build around the periphery of his vision, blotting out parts of the intricate tapestry above.

Was he dead yet? He must be, or nearly.

He was suddenly aware of a face, hovering a few inches above his, but it was shadowy and he couldn't see it properly.

Was this his angel?

Were there angels where he was going?

Regret filled him, and he abruptly wished he could have a second chance at life. But it was too late for that.

At last, Draco Malfoy gave in and closed his eyes to the world.

**A/N:**

**Oooooh, is he dead or not? Lol, I will post the next chapter as soon as possible so you don't think I'm a horrible, mean person. Sorry this one is so short, but it seemed appropriate to end it where I did. **

**Please review and let me know what you think of it! Reviews make me happyyyyy :)**


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